


Disco

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 10:29:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11416041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Thranduil only came to glitter night to see a certain someone sparkling.





	Disco

**Author's Note:**

  * For [legolasismine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/legolasismine/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for Legolas-is-mine’s “Glitter. Thrandolas. Thrandy in charge preferred” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/162565904960/prompt-list-3). (But this is an AU where they’re unrelated as I’m not doing father/son incest rn.)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of The Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He honestly doesn’t know why he even comes here anymore.

It isn’t just that the club is boring, generic and thoroughly useless in itself, but the promotions they devise are thoroughly deplorable. Thranduil’s spent the better part of the night dodging glitter, and every last person that’s come to try and claim him has worn a hideous array of jarring sparkles across their eyes and cheeks, many even along their mouths—something that looks, in Thranduil’s opinion, both juvenile and gaudy. He declined the ‘free glitter’ offered to him at the bar, rather ordering his usual red wine in a black glass, and has otherwise kept to himself in the far corner. Most of the couches in the alcove are strangely empty, everyone instead too busy dancing under the falling confetti on the center stage. The whole night is ridiculous beyond compare, and Thranduil finally tells himself that after another fifteen minutes, he’ll leave.

He’s annoyed at himself that he won’t just leave then, right when he thinks of it. He wants to think that he _can’t_ , but he knows, of course, that isn’t true—simply because he hasn’t come across his favourite patron in a good three weeks doesn’t mean he _needs_ to linger here in case he should. It isn’t as though he’ll parish without another random fuck in the back of a poorly lit club. 

Except that it isn’t _random_ , he knows that, and that one single person has spoiled him to the rest of the drunken fools around him. He knows already that none of them will satisfy him. No one else will do. And Thranduil’s never taken well to not getting what he wants. 

He’s just about at his limit when he spots a familiar flick of white-blond hair, all the way across the floor, the young man leant sensually over the bar. The redheaded bartender slides over a mystery drink in an opaque green glass, one the blond collects and lifts in solute. Then he turns, taking his first sip, and his eyes connect right away with Thranduil’s. 

Thranduil bores into those blue eyes, bright and clear as a summer sky, and all but wills the man towards him. He neither frowns nor smiles—if the man has been avoiding him, then Thranduil won’t beg. It isn’t as though they actually owe each other anything, not as though this has been any more than rushed, albeit impassioned public sex. But Thranduil stares at the man as though it’s _much_ more. In a way, the dry spell has made him realize that. There was a week or two where they were fucking every night, and by contrast, this might be the longest Thranduil’s gone without a fuck in an age. 

As if under Thranduil’s spell, the elf drifts forward, dipping gracefully between bodies and never once looking away. He sips at his drink while he comes, and then he’s right before Thranduil’s couch, slipping down onto the same cushion, close enough that their knees are brushing. Thranduil greets in a deliberately casual purr, “Legolas.”

“You remember my name,” Legolas teases, which, though it’s clearly a joke, makes Thranduil’s chest clench in mingled hurt and annoyance. They’ve been playing this game for months now, and he’s moaned the name in Legolas’ ear enough to know it off by heart. Legolas has to lean close to be heard over the pounding music, and he laughs, “And here I thought you might have gotten bored of me.”

Thranduil lifts an eyebrow, wondering now if the three week gap was somehow _his_ fault, if he could’ve possibly been coming at the wrong times or looking in the wrong places. But the club isn’t that large, and he can afford to swing by several times a week. The reminder of how long it’s been pushes him to make certain that he scores tonight, and he tosses his arm around Legolas’ slender shoulders to draw him closer. Thranduil turns to purr directly in his ear, “On the contrary, you are the sole reason I still frequent this dump.”

Legolas grins wide. It’s stunning on him, highlighting every perfect point of his attractive face. He’s an absolutely _gorgeous_ creature, even by Thranduil’s high standards, and he’s coy and spry with plenty of stamina. His hair is drawn back from his face tonight, two little braids woven behind his ears, the rest flowing freely down. He wears the tightest jeans imaginable and a crisp, white button-up that makes him look like one of Thranduil’s interns—but a more sexualized version, one that Thranduil would happily bend over his desk immediately after work. Legolas swirls his drink around his glass, takes another sip and idly notes, “You know, the bartender told me you’re a creep.”

Years of tight control stop Thranduil from tensing. Inwardly, he snarls, but on the surface he merely asks, “And why is that?”

“Because I look like I could be your son,” Legolas chirps, with a wicked sort of grin that denotes he wouldn’t mind that game. Thranduil can’t help his thin smile, even when Legolas smoothly adds, “Of course, I happen to know you’re just vain.”

Thranduil sets his own drink on the table before them, instead using his hand to cup Legolas’ chin, lifting it. He makes as if to examine Legolas’ pretty face, making his meaning clear as he murmurs, “When one is this handsome, one can afford to be.” Legolas’ eyes flash, and he seems to lean into Thranduil’s touch, body arching forward. He sets his own glass down beside Thranduil’s without looking. Thranduil tilts in, unable to resist any longer. 

He brushes his lips along Legolas’, and instantly, that first jolt of electricity sizzles through him; Legolas is more intoxicating than anything the bar has to offer. Thranduil runs his tongue along Legolas’ bottom lip, tracing their familiar shape, then dives inside and presses them flush together, capturing Legolas’ mouth. Legolas moans right into him; it’s instantly clear that Legolas has missed this as much as he has. He takes his time making up for it, licking out Legolas’ mouth and mapping it anew. When he finally pulls away, he drags his teeth along Legolas’ lip. 

Then he asks right against it, “What are you drinking?” There’s a strange taste on Legolas’ tongue, one he can’t quite place. And Thranduil knows his wine better than anyone. Legolas reaches for the table, gathering up his glass again. 

“Tonight’s specialty—glitter champagne.” He tips it enough to show it off, then pulls free of Thranduil’s hand so he has room to dip his pinkie into the sparkling soup. He proceeds to lift and drag his littlest finger along the plump line of his lips, coating them in thick glitter, almost like a paste, that draws Thranduil’s eyes right to it. Suddenly, the glitter doesn’t seem so horrendous anymore. On Legolas’ lips, all it makes Thranduil want is to see them stretched wide around his cock. It highlights how full they are, and how pink the soft tongue is between. As soon as Legolas has set his drink down again, Thranduil’s leant back in.

He doesn’t kiss Legolas right away, doesn’t quite want that makeshift lipstick on himself, and instead laps at Legolas’ lips, earning a giggle and a sensuous moan. It does taste pleasant, though strange, and incredibly sugary. As he finishes, he mutters, “Ah, it’s infused with alcohol. _Now_ I see the appeal.”

He even dips his own finger into Legolas’ glass, not bothering to ask, and smears it over Legolas’ raw lips again. It wracks another moan out of Legolas, and Legolas arches into him, while he drags his long fingers down the corner of Legolas’ lips, across his chin, below to his chest, and into the neckline of his shirt—suddenly, Thranduil understands exactly why people come here in body glitter. At least, the edible kind. The final bit left on Thranduil’s finger, he wipes on the pointed tips of Legolas’ ears: icing on the cake. Legolas looks delectable in it, already breathing hard with his eyes a little heavy, dilated. His cheeks are flushed at Thranduil’s touch alone. Thranduil looks at him, drinks him in, and growls, “Take it off.”

Legolas doesn’t even ask what. He obeys instantly, tugging at the buttons of his shirt and shimmying out of it without having to be told again. It gives Thranduil room to paint more glitter across his taut breast, tracing idle circles around and coating his pink nipples, then down his hipbones, accenting his slight curves. Thranduil makes a masterpiece before he bends to suck one pebbled nub into his mouth, and he suckles away at the decorative sugar while Legolas gasps and runs trim fingers into his hair.

As Thranduil withdraws to nip his way across Legolas’ chest, he purrs, “You are a pretty thing.” Legolas looks like he wants to return the compliment but already finds himself too breathless. Thranduil delights himself in licking clean the rest of Legolas’ shapely body, only to pull back afterwards to examine his handiwork. The glitter hasn’t completely gone, only thinned, and Legolas’ skin shimmers wetly in its wake. 

Thranduil drags his eyes slowly up to Legolas’ face, and Legolas notes huskily, “You’re hungry tonight.”

Thranduil admits, throaty and feral, “It’s been too long since I last had you, my little leaf.” The established petname has the intended effect: a visible shiver runs through Legolas’ body. Legolas closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he murmurs almost too low to be heard over the music, even with them as close as they are, “I... I may have been avoiding it.” He pauses to smile hopefully, adding with palpable charm, “But I had to return tonight—I wanted to see glitter in your hair.”

Thranduil was about to dive back down, but now he stops, glitter utterly forgotten. He gives Legolas a serious look, only earning a sheepish one in return. Thranduil probes carefully, “You were avoiding me...?”

Legolas’ ripe cheeks stain a dark pink. He averts his eyes, but lifts his hands to Thranduil’s shoulders, as though wanting to physically hold Thranduil in place for him. “I... please, forgive me... I just didn’t want to fall too hard when... well... I didn’t want to just turn into a fucktoy you’d use up and throw away.”

This time, the hurt is more than an annoyance. In some places, yes, Thranduil’s earned that reputation, but not here. Not with Legolas. He’d simply thought that was all his young paramour wanted. When he looks at Legolas properly, even in the pulsing, ever-changing lights, he can now see that isn’t true. 

At Thranduil’s long pause, Legolas answers hopefully, “Or is this the night that you’re finally going to take me home?” He drops his hand as he says it, lewdly cupping the hard bulge in Thranduil’s pants. He’s licked it, sucked it, ridden it, and taken it in just about every position these couches could support, but he looks tonight as though he’d be quite fine with saving it for later—preferably the middle of the night, in Thranduil’s own bed. 

Thranduil finally answers, “If I’d known you wanted that, I would’ve fucked you against my headboard on the first night. It would’ve spared me having to install the mirror on my ceiling.

It has the intended effect—Legolas laughs, lifting the mood of the conversation with him. He teases, “You _are_ a creep.” Then he lightly shoves Thranduil’s chest, before leaning in to purr across Thranduil’s lips, “but one I very much want to take me.”

Thranduil can’t resist; he closes the tiny gap for another kiss. When they part, he dips his hand, still sparkling, along Legolas’ hip and right into his jeans, forcing out a high-pitched gasp as Thranduil cups his cock. Thranduil gives it a single squeeze, light but powerful, and hisses, “Then let’s get some of this to go.”

Legolas nods eagerly and collects his shirt, not bothering to put it back on as Thranduil quickly rises to usher him across the bar.


End file.
